Val closed her eyes and prayed it would work out. As she did, she felt Slade’s hand close over hers, as if he’d read her thoughts.

“This is gonna be good, wife,” he said with this cowboy grin. “Just you wait and see.”

And in the distance, they heard the bells, pealing through the summer air, counting off the next few minutes of the rest of their lives.

“So that’s it, case closed?” Montoya asked as he walked into Bentz’s office Monday afternoon, then flopped into one of the chairs in front of the desk.

“It’ll never be closed,” Bentz said, “not as long as Father John is alive.” He was tired, his shoulders ached, and he was pissed off that the fake priest had slipped through their fingers again.

“You don’t know that he is alive,” Montoya said, playing devil’s advocate again. “Grace Blanc could have been murdered by a copycat.”

“Blood type says it’s the same guy.”

“DNA isn’t back yet. Come on, I’ll buy you a beer.”

Bentz shot him a look. He rarely drank.

“Okay, a Diet Coke or whatever it is you like.” Montoya was on his feet again, and Bentz grabbed his jacket as they walked out of the office and down the stairs to the main level.

Outside, the day smelled fresh, the air clean, a breeze tossing around the fronds of a few palms that were planted near the street.

“Grace Blanc won’t be the last one,” Bentz said, irritated.

“But at least the nuns at St. Marguerite’s are safe again.”

“At a price.” Sister Charity Varisco hadn’t made it. From what he’d heard, she’d dived onto the knife-wielding Sister Devota in order to save Valerie Renard Houston, her biological daughter.

But Devota had survived and would go to trial. Her wounds hadn’t been deep, and the DA was putting together a case that would ensure that she be locked up for life.

Which, in Bentz’s estimation, wasn’t long enough. Too many women, good women of faith, had died at her hand. She was, as Montoya had commented, “a real nut job.”

“Hey, wait up!”

He didn’t want to look over his shoulder, knowing he’d see Brinkman jogging up, sweating out his shirt, wheezing.

Montoya turned and frowned as they reached the door to the bar.

Brinkman caught up with them and reached into his shirt pocket for his pack of cigarettes. To Bentz’s surprise, he shook out several and offered them each a smoke.

Bentz shook his head. “No, thanks.”

Montoya hesitated, then said, “Naw, I’m off ’em. The case is over, and Abby’s on to me.”

“Pussy-whipped.” Brinkman snorted, lighting up and shooting smoke through his nostrils.

“Yeah, well, I’m still married.”